


Let it Snow

by Bluebox_Parchment



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Feelings, Grace Kink, Impala Sex, M/M, PWP, i honestly set out to just write PORN and then, prayer kink, shameless porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebox_Parchment/pseuds/Bluebox_Parchment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Cas get snowed in the Impala.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let it Snow

This is by far the worst idea Dean had ever had, and considering he'd sold his own soul and gone to hell, that is really saying something. After all, who goes trecking through ancient graveyards in a snow storm, chasing after a ghost who's cold spots were probably warmer than the air outside? Dumb people, that's who. And right now, Dean's very aware that he falls exclusively into that category.

He glances over to Cas, who had tagged along for the ride, and finds that the angel seems utterly unphased by the cold. Sure, he's squinting as the snow obscures his vision, but Dean can't be certain that that's not just the way Cas looks sometimes.

Dean gives one last feeble attempt at digging up the rock hard, frozen-over earth before throwing the shovel into the snow at his feet. "Useless piece of crap," he mutters, rubbing his gloved hands together.

"I did-"

"Don't you dare," Dean hisses, pointing an angry finger in Cas' direction. "I'm gonna hear enough 'I told you so's' from Sammy, I don't wanna hear them from you too."

Sam, of course, had chosen the last two days to get sick. Nose streaming more gunk than necessary, a violent hacking cough that sounded like his lungs were trying to make a bid for freedom, and an insanely high temperature had his little brother bundled up under all the blankets Dean could find in the motel with a bottle of pills, tins of soup and strict instructions only to get up to pee.

Cas had offered to drive right on past his rendezvous with Dean to heal up the younger Winchester, but Dean had shook his head and said it did their immune systems good to get ill once in a while. He nudged Cas with an elbow and thanked him all the same. Dean wasn't gonna shout it from the rooftops, but he knew Cas still wasn't in great shape, what with the stolen Graces burning him out, and Dean wasn't about to push Cas further down the road to death, just to get him or Sam over a little inconvenience like the flu.

Dean watches as Cas picks up the deposited shovel, and gives his best attempt at breaking the earth of the grave. But no dice. The steel of the shovel bends as unmoveable earth meets might of an angel and Cas tuts in what sounds like apparent disgust. "You're right," Cas says, throwing the now-useless shovel back into a snow drift.

"C'mon," Dean says, turning away from the grave and heading down the slippery path towards the place he'd parked the Impala.

She's covered in a fair amount of snow, but the fern he'd parked her beneath had held off the worst of it. Cas' car, on the other hand, had been left to the worst the elements had to offer and was completely covered by an inch of snow and counting. The wheels looked like they would only budge through the power of prayer.

Cas looks aghast and Dean finds the look of horror on the angel's face to be quite endearing. He reaches over and claps Cas on the back and says, "Get in. We'll come back for your pimp mobile once the snow's cleared a bit. We'll need to anyway to burn the bones."

Cas huffs at the gentle insult, but climbs into the passenger side of the Impala without a word.

Dean kicks the snow off his boots before swinging his legs inside and shivering. He sparks the ignition and turns on the blower as high as it'll go. The windows are fogged right over and they're going to take a little while to clear. He can feel Cas' eyes on him, watching as he claps his gloved hands together and jiggles his legs about to get warmth to his bones.

The window starts to clear and Dean clicks on the wipers to shift the snow that keeps hitting the screen and melting. He eases out down the road, carefully passing Cas' car. The tyres crunch through the snow, packing it down and slipping ever now and again. Dean keeps a tight grip on the steering wheel and gets them out of the cemetery.

They drive in silence for what feels like forever, Dean coaxing the Impala through the shitty weather and Cas watching the snow descend from the passenger-side window. And things go as swimmingly as they can when the sky's split open and pouring ice over you. The silence isn't awkward (Dean finds it never is with Cas), and he keeps them going at a steady twenty five miles per hour until Baby starts to make a heart wrenching whine as Dean tries to push on through the mounting snow.

"Should the Impala be making that noise?" Cas asks curiously.

Dean touches the breaks gently, but feels the wheels skid more violently than they had in quite some time, so he quickly changes up a gear and takes his feet from the pedals, steering the car back to straight. Dean shoots Cas a filthy look, as though the angel had caused the sudden loss of control through his question alone.

He revs the engine a little to keep them trundling forwards but the Impala complains a little more insistently and something starts to rattle. "No no, c'mon Baby, don't do this to me," Dean says absently, gently caressing his hands across the wheel as though his touch could be anything short of magical.

Valiantly, Dean keeps the car going for perhaps another half a mile before she decides she's had enough. The wheels no longer want to move through the mounting snow and the engine gives one last feeble whine, before dying completely. Dean flops forwards and presses his forehead to the steering wheel letting loose a string of half-hearted expletives and a loud groan.

Cas, it seems, has decided to remain completely, uselessly quiet - perhaps as a way of giving Dean time to mourn the engine's passing - and stares unblinkingly out the windscreen as the glass covers over with a gentle smattering of snow.

Dean tilts his head sideways, keeping his forehead on the wheel, and looks at Cas through squinted eyes. Not a single cloud of condensed breath fogs before his face. "Dude, are you even breathing?" he asks curiously.

Cas turns to look at him and says exasperatedly, "We've known one another for approximately seven years, Dean. I'm an _angel_."

"Sheesh," Dean mutters. "I'll take that as a no then." He pushes away from the wheel and for the first time, feels the cold that's beginning to slip through the cracks in the car. "Great, didn't anticipate dying from hypothermia in a snowed in car with a grumpy ass angel."

Cas rolls his eyes and says, "We've been here for five minutes. Stop being melodramatic. You're not going to die."

"Easy for you to say, you giant collumn of light, some of us are mortal."

Cas pins him with such a withering stare that Dean almost baulks under it. Almost. "There's enough residual warmth in the car for another hour at least," Cas says. "After that, your core body temperature might drop a little too low and it you were alone you may become very sick."

"Right," Dean says, drawing out the syllables. "So you're saying it's a good thing I'm stuck with -"

"A giant collumn of light? Yes."

They lapse in to silence, Dean jiggling his legs about to encourage continued warmth.

After what feels like forever in the silent, snow covered car, but is probably only three minutes, Cas seems to take pity on him and sighs. "There's a new bottle of whiskey half underneath your seat."

Dean startles at the sound of Cas' voice and then twists in his seat to look over his shoulder. He glances back and Cas and says through a grin, "You tryin'a get me drunk, Cas?" Without waiting for an answer, he reaches round the seat, groping blindly in the back foot-well for the promised liquor until his fingers catch on cool glass.

"I'm merely aware that alcohol warms the system," Cas says.

Dean splits the lid and knocks back a measure. "So you're getting me drunk to keep me alive?" He chuckles softly and swigs at the bottle again.  
"It's certainly the lesser of two evils, yes Dean."

Dean takes another mouthful of whiskey and cocks his head to Cas. "Thanks," he says. The alcohol has flared through his system much quicker than it normally would and it settles a warmth in his gut that spills between the places between bones. He measures a gentle glance in Cas' direction.

Cas smiles back, eyes soft and a small tilt of his lips. "You don't need to thank me, Dean," he says in little more than a whisper. The moonlight outside filters through the clumps of snow and mottles shadows over the angels' skin.

"Yeah, well," Dean says. "I'm glad I'm stuck with you." He takes another mouthful of whiskey and passes the bottle over to Cas.

He narrows his eyes at the bottle and tilts his head, and Dean smiles at the sight fondly. "I doubt it'll have the desired effect."

"And?" Dean asks, giving the bottle a little shake. The whiskey sloshes against the inside of the bottle. "You think Sammy and I drink this stuff to get drunk?"

Cas takes hold of the bottle, his fingers catching Dean's in the process and the hunter gasps a short breath. "No," Cas says, noticing exactly nothing. "You drink it to sleep."

Dean's smile falters slightly and he sinks back into his seat, looking straight ahead again. "Way to kill the mood, dude," he mutters, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

From the corner of his eye, Dean catches sight of the moonlight reflecting off the bottle as Cas brings it to his lips and drains a large measure. He smacks his lips afterwards and hands the bottle back over to Dean. "Tastes like molecules," he says firmly.

Dean snorts softly and knocks back another mouthful, feeling his brain begin to lag. He wonders how much of that is down to the alcohol and how much is down to the cold.  
Right on cue, his body gives an involuntary shiver.

Within seconds, Cas' gaze is burning in to him. "Your cold," the angel says matter-of-factly.

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean mutters. "Wait, what are you doing?" Dean's voice seems to have climbed up a notch as he watches Cas shrugging out of his trench coat (not _the_ trench coat, Dean thinks bitterly. Not like the trench coat that actually mattered).

Cas throws him a bitch face that Sam would be proud of, before draping the trench across Dean's knees. "You need it more than I do," he says bluntly.

Dean stares down at the tan stretch of fabric covering his knees and feels like a little old lady. "Uh," he says feeling suddenly very flustered, and wait... is he _blushing_? "Thanks." He slips his hands under the coat and finds it surprisingly warm consider he never really thought Cas gave off much body heat. He pulls it up over him to warm up his torso and arms a bit more affectively. It smells like Cas - like soap and sweat and something considerably _other_.

Dean struggles with words. He feels like he really should be saying something, but he can't quite get his brain to cooperate and now too much time seems to have passed. The silence is awkward again and for want of nothing better to do, Dean takes yet another mouthful of whiskey and hands the bottle back over to Cas.

After quite some time, Dean says a quiet, "I, uh." He hesitates, clears his throat and continues with, "I never thanked you."

"You have," Cas says mildly, scratching at the line of stubble littering his jaw. "Twice in fact."

"Not for that." For whatever reason, Dean's throat feels constricted.

"Then for what?" Cas asks curiously, holding out the whiskey again. Dean thinks he looks wildly out-of-place in a car doused in snow, wearing just his cheap suit and a furrowed brow.

"Stopping me," Dean says, taking the whiskey and drinking a bit more. "Y'know." He waves the bottle around and Cas frowns at him some more. "From burying an axe in Sam's skull or whatever."

Comprehension dawns across Cas' features like early morning sun. He nods sagely. "It was nothing."

It was everything," Dean says around the mouth of the bottle. "And I mean that."

They're quiet again for a little while after that, Cas acquiescing to passing the bottle back and forth, letting the newly open bottle descend down past the halfway drunk mark. "Do you remember it?" Cas asks suddenly.

"Which part?" Absently, Dean rubs a hand across the Mark of Cain, feeling grateful that Cas can't see through the coat draped over him.

"Wanting to kill Sam?"

Dean makes a non-committal sound and says, "Clear as day." Cas hums. "Why'd you ask?"

Cas shakes his head. "There are things that I did when I was," he pauses, staring at the snowed over Impala window as though trying to find something in the mound of snow, "bad. Things I regret more than anything."

Dean feels as though the air in the car's been sucked out. They don't talk about this. They never talk about this. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks, surprised to hear his voice sounding strong and unwavering.

"I know what it's like to be filled with anger at your siblings."

"I tried to kill him, Cas."

"One thousand, one hundred and twenty six," Cas says.

"One thousand, one hundred and twenty six, what?"

"Angels." Cas' face is stony. "Angels that I smote because they dared follow Raphael. That's the number of my siblings that I _did_ kill, because my anger was amplified with Leviathan blood lust and my own greed for power."

A knot tightens in Dean's stomach. They never talk about this. "Cas-"

"I'm telling you this, so you'll know. So you won't blame yourself for what happened. Demons... Leviathan... they take a part of what's inside you and they feed it. Fan its flames until its an inferno ready to consume you whole. We make mistakes Dean, the only way we can mend them is by owning them and pushing on through. Try and do the best that we can with the lot we've been given."

"When'd you get so wise, huh?"

"About three shots of whisky ago, I think."

Dean looks down at the bottle to find it mostly gone. His body is humming with the buzz. "Didn't think angels could get drunk," Dean teases.

Cas pins him with a stern gaze and says, "I'm haemorrhaging stolen grace by the day. I reckon that might have something to do with it."

"Don't," Dean whispers. The trench coat slips down his front as he leans in towards Cas.

"Don't what?"

"Resign yourself to death."

Cas blinks slowly, keeping his eyes closed perhaps half a second longer than necessary. His dark lashes line his slightly flushed cheeks and Dean thinks he looks downright beautiful. "Too late," Cas says. "I'm dying, Dean."

Dean's pretty sure friends don't crowd in to one another's spaces the way he and Cas are doing right now. Friends don't gravitate towards one another like magnets. Friends don't whispers, "No," before leaning in and pressing their lips together, buoyed on by a fifth of whiskey, the silence, the darkness from the cocoon of snow.

No. Friends absolutely do not do this. They don't need, they don't want, they just are. Then again, Dean thinks as his chapped lips brush with Cas', he and Cas flew past 'friends' a long time ago.

~*~

When Naomi had drilled into Cas' hardware and programmed him to kill Dean Winchester should he endanger their mission, she'd made him practice.

The first time, Cas had known in the part of his mind that sounded like Naomi, that he was to kill Dean.

The copy didn't really do anything at all. It didn't speak. Didn't move. Didn't have anything much of Dean to him at all, except his face. And Cas felt sure - felt that Naomi was sure - that this would be easy.

After all, it definitely wasn't Dean. But his hand had faltered all the same and Naomi had walked up behind him and guided his angel blade in to not-Dean's chest cavity.  
"It'll take time," she cooed, "but we have plenty of it."

The second time, not-Dean had run away. Not that his legs could carry him very far - Cas was an angel - and Cas had blocked him off, thrown a punch and sent not-Dean flying against a wall. For several seconds, he'd pinned not-Dean there, an arm pressed against his chest and an angel blade in hand and Cas felt sure the programming would work that time. That any second he would feel a spurt of warm blood spill over his hands.

When it did come, it wasn't from the angel blade piercing Dean's chest. It poured from a cut in his own arm. Absently, Castiel had stared at the wound to his vessel's skin and had dropped the blade to the floor. Naomi had charged on over as Cas started dabbing a Banishing sigil onto the wall beside Dean's head, as though playing through an old memory.

Naomi had picked up the discarded angel blade, forced it into Castiel's already bloody hand and driven it in to not-Dean's chest.

Time number ten, not-Dean had spoken. He'd begged a pitiful, "Castiel, _please_ ," sounding nothing like Dean Winchester at all. Cas held on to that knowledge as he plunged the angel blade between not-Dean's ribs.

Number forty-two had thrown punches.

Number seventy-nine had spat ugly words.

Number one hundred and three shouted that he was glad he'd left Castiel in purgatory, that he deserved to rot there for everything he'd done. Cas had agreed with him, and had stabbed him in the gut all the same.

Number one hundred and ninety nine had said, "I love you," through a mouthful of blood. It was the first time Cas' hand had wavered in quite some time. Naomi was trying different variables, different tactics, hoping to account for any outcome. Her worst fears had been realised when Castiel had dropped the angel blade and swooped forwards and healed over the bruises his own fists had blossomed.

Days of work had unravelled in seconds. Naomi hauled him back for reprogramming and started small again.

Number two hundred had needed her guiding hand as Castiel had sobbed. Number two hundred and one ended with Naomi's lip splitting from a blow Castiel had landed and her own angel blade stabbing not-Dean through the heart.

Number two hundred and three saw things get back on track.

Number four hundred and six had begged, not for his own life, but for Sam's. Cas wobbled for agonising seconds, but had done as Naomi had ordered.

Number five hundred and fifty eight kissed him through bloody lips, fists bunched in to Cas' trench coat. Yet another long and arduous setback Naomi had had to smooth over.

Seven hundred and thirteen gave up after his face was pummelled by Castiel's fists. He'd laid down and died easily.

Eight hundred and sixty one mentioned Hell. Naomi was lucky Castiel didn't smite her.

Number one thousand was the most like Dean. His mannerisms were honed to almost perfection. He'd fought exactly the way Castiel would've expected.

When Castiel struck him, there was barely a trace of hesitation left within the angel.

When not-Dean begged, Castiel didn't listen.

When not-Dean had professed his love spitting blood to the floor, desperate and broken, Castiel had stepped forwards and killed him without mercy.

Naomi had praised how well he had done, glowing with satisfaction at a job well done.

And then she had made him perfect the art another one hundred and twenty six times.

So when Dean's lips press to his own, all Cas can think about is a sea of dead bodies that all looked like Dean. A part of his brain sparks him back to the fifty times he'd heard those lips say 'I love you' in a spray of blood. To the four not-Dean's that had tried this very act to reach him.

Cas pulls back sharply.

Metatron waving an angel blade covered in blood skitters through his mind's eye before his gaze focuses wholly on Dean's wide green eyes.

"Oh," Dean breaths softly. His lips had tasted like whiskey. Had felt surprisingly warm.

A flush bleeds across the hunter's cheeks and he leans away, startled and afraid.

He's broadcasting loudly. Cas hadn't tuned in to angel radio for a long time, but in such a confined space with a Winchester who's brain was screaming for the ground to swallow him whole... well, Cas could hardly tune that out.

"Dean," Cas says softly.

Dean doesn't listen, just shakes his head, clams up and says, "I drank too much -" a downright lie and they both know Dean's downed more in the past, "- I should sleep." He makes an attempt to cross his arms and close his eyes, but Cas snatches out, wrapping a hand around Dean's wrist.

One angel, standing alone for the glory of God and the good of the Heavenly Host; it was a good story, Metatron was right, but it was also a pack of lies.

His love for Dean flares through him like a supernova, burns with the heat of a thousand suns exploding into existence. He's not sure when he became aware of it, if it was before the world didn't end or after he'd made his deal with Crowley, but he was certain of it when his memories had flooded back, and it had burnt inside of him as he ran through Purgatory alone.

He has lived for aeons, through the birth of stars, planets and _life_. He has watched them burn and die and birth, seen galaxies collide, merge, morph in to one, and he thinks, perhaps, he and Dean are like that. That the super massive black holes at the heart of them both, yearn towards one another, gravitating together. And it shouldn't work, shouldn't fit, but they do, they do, they do.

He leans over and kisses Dean softly, a brush of lips, a flutter of eyelashes on cheeks. His nose bumps against the angle of Dean's and he huffs a little breath that smarts against Cas' cheek.

There's so much fear coming from the pair of them, that Cas can taste it on the air in their confined space. They're both so afraid to let good things happen.

Cas rests his forehead to Dean's and counts the freckles that dust the skin of his nose. "I'm not letting you die," Dean whispers.

"Okay," Cas breathes into his mouth. It should feel hollow, nothing more than an empty lie, but there's something about Dean - who's pulse is racing beneath his fingertips - that makes him think maybe he's telling the truth.

~*~

Cas kisses like Dean's precious cargo. His hands cradle Dean's face and his lips press to Dean's in a caress of warmth and tenderness.

In the many times Dean has thought about this exact moment, not once did he expect the gentleness. Who could blame him? He and Cas sift through their shit with their fists, air their grievances with blood and violence. This was meant to happen at the crescendo of an ugly fight, where angry words were tossed back and forth like knives, where they'd revel in the blows they land against the other until words would be replaced with tongue and teeth.

The love that pours from every slight touch, every blessed kiss, that Cas smooths in to Dean's skin was never part of the equation. Dean wants to shrink away from it, protest that he's not worthy of any sort of love, let alone the love of an angel, but he can't bring himself to push Cas away.

He craves the reverence more than he's craved anything in his life.

Cas pulls back just slightly, giving them both space to breathe. There's a pink tinge crested across his cheeks, and his eyes are feral, blown with desire.

Dean feels like he should say something, force in to words what this means. Tell Cas that he wants this, so bad, he wants wants _wants_ but he's not sure he knows how to explain or claim the feelings pounding in his ears, or the desire flaring through his bones. All he knows is that Cas' mouth isn't on his any longer and that's something that desperately needs rectifying.

Words... he and Cas really don't need them, he thinks, surging forwards again. They never have done before and hell, why should that change now?

He fists his hands into the lapels of Cas' suit, feeling the rough scritch of cheap polyester under his palms, and he drags him back across the inch or two of space that had grown between them. Cas huffs softly into his mouth, and the sound of it makes Dean's blood run hot.

He licks across the seam of Cas' mouth and is rewarded with warm, wet tongue, and Cas' teeth grazing at his kiss-swollen bottom lip. He's not entirely sure where to put his hands. Part of him is desperate to drag the clothes from Cas' body and part of him wants to knot his fingers into Cas' dark tresses.

Dean settles on sliding one hand under the jacket, and twisting the other hand into Cas' hair, pulling Cas towards him across the front seat.

The angel groans into his mouth, and it's a filthy sound, something keening and unholy that sends blood rushing down Dean's body. Encouraged by the breathy sounds issuing from between Cas' teeth, Dean shoves at the suit jacket until Cas is shaking his arms out of them. He breaks the kiss momentarily to dip his head and fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

"Dean," Cas growls into his ear and Dean's cock twitches in his pants.

"Want you," Dean breathes against the hollow of Cas' neck.

Cas pulls back and cool air smarts against Dean's feverish skin. The angel looks a flushed state, all blotchy pink cheeks, swollen lips and wild hair and it's the hottest sight Dean has ever seen. Cas' shirt hangs half open, revealing smooth planes of toned skin that Dean wants to mark up with bruising kisses.

And this is where it all goes to shit. Dean's stomach ties itself in knots because Cas pulled away. Cas pulled away and he's now gonna put his foot down, put an end to this. And Dean... he's given far too much away.

This is where Cas would've flown off before. Fluttered away with a ripping noise of wings and ozone. And that might've made this whole thing a bit easier to deal with.

Except, that's not an option and Dean's painfully aware that they're going to have to spend the night together in a weird state of drunken, horniness, trapped under several feet of snow in a car that won't budge.

Cas purses his lips, his brow furrowed. And Dean steels himself for the let down, for his heart to get ripped clean out of his chest. Rookie mistake, Winchester, you should've known this was coming.

Cas' eyes are wild and look like lightning splitting open the sky. He leans forwards, one hand gripping the wheel of the Impala and whispers, "Since the moment I saw your soul in hell, I have loved you." Dean feels his heart swell. He physically feels his fear and unnecessary panic drain right out of him. "You were a shining beacon of love and hope, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in all of creation." Dean doesn't think that's true at all. There's no way it could ever be. But Cas looks so earnest, is pinning him with such an intense stare that Dean can't look away from. "This isn't..." Cas whispers, biting his lip and closing his eyes, dark eyelashes fanning across his cheeks. "I don't..."

"I know," Dean breathes, surprised that he's even able to speak, surprised to find that he really, really does. "I just-" He leans in, a gentle touch of lips, and his throat is so constricted... he doesn't know how to say the words.

He touches their foreheads together and _prays_.

_You're my best friend, Cas. I don't know how to say it, please don't make - let me show you. Please, please, I need you to let me show you. I need you-_

Cas surges forwards, claiming his mouth and digging his fingers into Dean's hair. "Okay," he sighs contentedly, and all softness in his actions is gone. "Okay."

Dean's not sure how they manage it, but suddenly he's got a lap full of Castiel, who's desperately pushing at the many layers covering Dean's body and quite frankly, Dean hates every last one of them. Cas' head keeps brushing the roof of the Impala but he doesn't seem to mind too much.

With every layer he strips away, Cas bends down to kiss at newly exposed patches of skin. He sucks bruises into Dean's collarbone, mouths gently at the crease of Dean's right elbow, licks the sweat from behind Dean's ear until Dean's whole body is _singing_.

It's not until he's shirtless that Dean even remembers that it's sub-zero outside and he should be freezing his ass off and a chill shudders down his spine involuntarily. Cas eases back from curling his tongue alongside Dean's to pin him down with a stare. "You're cold," he states, and Dean's argument of _no, no, I'm totally fine_ , is cut off when a spectacular array of goosebumps shatter across his skin.

Cas huffs and leans his weight back against the steering wheel. Dean's sure it can't be particularly comfortable - he knows how bad it can be knocking his knees against the thing - but Cas lounges there like he was built to fit.

And part of Dean knows that if this whole thing means what he thinks it does - and if the tingling spots on his neck where Cas' saliva cools against his skin and the insistent promises of love that have poured from the angels' mouth are anything to go by, it really really does - then it shouldn't matter. They can rain-check. Wait out the night fully clothed and warm. Dean won't get hypothermia and die and Cas won't feel guilty about it afterwards.

But there's a big part of Dean that really doesn't want to. Screw the damn weather, he's waited too long for this and if he has to wait any longer he thinks it might kill him.

He runs his broad hands up Cas' thighs and is rewarded with a delicious shiver and Cas grinding his ass down in to Dean's lap. The filthy tease.

Dean sighs, tipping his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. Fine fine, he'll think with his brain and not his painfully hard erection.

He's about to start rooting around on the passenger seat for his plaid shirt when Cas slips a hand up the front of his Henley and Dean freezes at the contact. Cas' hands are fucking freezing and he gives a soft yelp with cold fingers trail over a nipple. "Jesus, Cas," Dean hisses through a sharp intake of breath. His hands tighten on the angel's hips reflexively.

"Not quite," Cas murmurs before surging forwards to capture Dean's mouth with his.

And Dean feels like he's flying. Warmth bleeds in to him from where Cas' mouth meets his and through his partially closed eyes he can see the swirl of blue-white smoke pouring from the angel. He wants to push Cas away, force him to stop wasting his precious precious Grace on _Dean_ for God's sake, but he's rooted to the spot.

He feels like he could see every star at once... he _can_ see every individual snowflake that covers the windscreen. Cas' Grace is sighing sweet choruses in his ears, he can see vague imprints of light radiating from the core of the angel and he looks terrifyingly beautiful.

Dean feels electric, and the pleasure that's coursing through his system multiplies tenfold. His pulse races, blood thrums a bass line in his eardrums, and when Cas leans forwards again, pressing his chest to Deans and running his nose against the side of Dean's jaw, Dean feels like he can't breathe.

"Better?" Cas asks and Dean hums. He's punch drunk, and tingly.

"What about you?" he asks thickly, unable to quite keep the unease at bay completely. "Won't this -"

"No," Cas breathes, gentle kisses at the corner of Dean's mouth. "No this is good for me too."

The unease ebbs and it's all the encouragement Dean needs.

Their kisses become furious, needy pulls of air gasped from one another's mouths. Blunt nails bite into flesh, rough stubble runs coarsely across sweat-covered skin and every touch, every kiss, is the better than the last.

Dean manages to force the front seat back a ways and then Cas is draping himself over Dean, grinding his hips down to meet his in a desperate search of friction and in all the times Dean has made out with people - girls mostly - in the front seat of the Impala, not once has it ever felt as good as this.

They have entirely too many clothes on still.

Cas lavishnesses his neck with peppered little kisses and bites bruises in to the sensitive skin of his collarbone and Dean should hate exposing vulnerable parts of himself, but it doesn't feel like that. Not really. Not with Cas.

And Dean just gives himself over to the feel of it all. He's nothing but raw nerve sparking fire at every point Cas touches him. His bloodstream is buzzing and his brain is filled with a litany of Cas Cas Cas...

The angel swipes a thumb across the hard nub of Dean's nipple through his Henley and in spite of himself, Dean honest-to-God whimpers at the sensation burning through him. It felt good before, but now with Grace warming the core of him, it feels like the best high he's ever had.

Cas pauses from nibbling at the tender skin of Dean's earlobe to whisper, "I can feel every part of you. Your soul is singing."

Dean tilts his head to the side and brings their mouths crashing back together, darting his tongue back in to Cas' mouth and tasting the birth of the universe behind his teeth. Dean ruts up, chasing the slow burn of friction, and groans in to Cas' mouth, "Pants off. Now."

He feels rather than sees the smirk that breaks across Cas' face.

Dean pants, desperately trying to tug lungfuls of air into his system, his heart racing, as he watches Cas methodically unbuckle his belt. He pauses, looking down at himself before saying, "I'm not entirely sure how this is going to work." His voice is utterly wrecked.

Slowly, so tortuously slowly, Cas unbuttons his slacks and pushes them halfway down his thighs and Dean lets loose a breathless laugh. "C'mere," he mumbles, sliding a hand down the cleft of Cas' ass and cupping the back of his neck to pull him forwards until he's leaning over Dean once more. "I'll help."

Cas' smile is blinding, open and warming all by itself. Together, they manage to kick his pants to the floor before Dean lifts his hips up to drag his own pair down too.

Dean's stuck but a sudden wave of nerves as Cas' hands slide underneath his Henley to drag the shirt up over his head. It's the same kind of rush that floods the system as your build up to the first drop on a roller-coaster when there's nothing more to do than hold on tight and let gravity do its worst. Dean's not entirely sure the feelings are even fully his own.

As though prompted by the stray thought floating through his head, Cas' Grace pulses under his skin and he's drowning in memories that aren't his own. Memories of a thousand of himself dying by Cas' hands and the nerves, the _fear_ shaking through Cas makes so much more sense. The angel kisses him as though trying to extract the images from Dean's mind and he's whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," though every press of lips.

Dean hushes him, breathes, "S'okay," into his mouth and holds Cas to him. And though there's no need for Cas to be apologising, has nothing to be absolved of in Dean's eyes, he chases the next kiss with an earnest, "I forgive you."

Cas rocks against him, a solid warmth making every inch of his body hum happily. He slides his hands down to Cas hips, stroking the pad of his thumb across the hard press of bone, and can't wait to one day bite bruises in to that unblemished skin... Well, if this winds up being more than a one time thing...

Cas rolls his earlobe through his teeth and whispers, "Most definitely. I'm not giving you up."  And he grinds down his hips, the hard press of his erection sliding against Dean's as though to prove a point.

"You should stay outta my head," Dean mumbles without any heat to the words. He nips at the soft skin of Cas' neck and is rewarded with another roll of the hips.

"S'impossible," says Cas, fitting their mouths back together, and just like that even more Grace spills past his lips and rushes through Dean's bloodstream. "This makes that impossible."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and lets the sensation floor him. "Fuck, Cas."

The angel huffs, "That's the idea," against his clavicle.

Dean lets loose a bark of laughter. "You made a joke."

Cas bumps his forehead to Dean's and asks, "Proud?"

"Very, actually," he answers, before tilting his head and kissing him again.

They make short work of their underwear and if it had felt electric before, it now feels a thousand times better. Slick sensitive skin sliding against each other. Dean runs his hands across the smooth, flat planes of Cas' body and wants to intimately know each and every part of him. He wants to know every possible stroke that causes the prickle of soft hairs and goose flesh to pepper across Cas' skin. He wants to know what illicit sighs, what encourages groans, what causes Cas to tip his head back with his eyes closed in bliss, a smile stretched across his lips.

Dean wants to know what Cas would look like, sound like, taste like, if he were to suck his cock. Wants to know the noises he would make, how tight he would feel, if he were to work Cas open with slicked up fingers - would he shudder and gasp and curse and beg?

His cock leaks pre-come at the thought as they thrust together and it's not quite enough, there needs to be more friction, more more more, and Dean's untangling a hand from where it's knotted in Cas' hair when the angel snatches it back and laces their fingers together. "No," he growls, flattening his chest to Dean, trapping their cocks between their belly's and thrusting even more insistently. "Not yet."

And it's torturous. Just this side of not quite enough.

Dean's flayed open, raw nerve, nothing more than want and need and more more more...

"Your thoughts are blasphemous, Dean Winchester." He stops thrusting, snatches at Dean's other hand before he's pinning them beside his head and locking eyes with Dean.

The brilliant blue Dean's so used to seeing has been almost completely swallowed by blown pupils and Cas growls, "Tell me what else you want," in a voice so reminiscent of the angel that had once threatened to throw him back to Hell; all heavenly righteousness and power. Cas rolls his hips once and Dean whines at the sensation. "Pray - to - me." He punctures every word with a devastating roll of the hips and Dean doesn't have it in him to disobey.

He doesn't know how prayer really works. He doesn't just start talking in his head to the angel like he usually might. Nor does he speak the words out loud. For a brief moment Dean wonders if every angel can hear what he's praying before he decides that even if they can, fuck 'em. He doesn't care.

All he wants is to roll over and feel the flat press of Cas' tongue on him, to push back until the angel works his fingers right in to him. And Dean knows that those fingers would magnetise towards his prostate like magic and when Cas lined up his hard cock to Dean's entrance and pushed in, he would fell so full and so so good and -

Cas' hips begin to move erratically and the Grace that burns through Dean's system is humming against his bones.

He begins to pant words in to Dean's ear, broken phrases in languages that are long dead. Yet Dean knows every word, understands it because Cas' Grace is echoing them in his head - my beloved, my beloved my beloved -

Dean comes with a shout of surprise, the heat exploding from him from nowhere, blind siding him. And there's no come down, no release, as Cas keeps thrusting through the mess, and all Dean can do is hold on tight as another roll of pleasure curls up and he's too sensitive and it's all too much but Cas makes soothing noises, whilst his Grace sings, love love love.

Another thrust of the hips and Cas is coming with Dean's name on his lips and his eyes glowing with a swirl of Grace.

The spark of endorphins that rushes through Cas, into his Grace, into Dean, saturates every atom of Dean's body until he's coming again. His brain is filled with white noise, there are supernova behind his eyelids, there's not enough oxygen in the universe to fill Dean's lungs. His heart beats violently against his chest, drumming a cacophony in his ears as his body works through the aftershocks.

He's semi-aware of Cas' lips touching his own, hyper aware of Cas' hands letting go of Dean's to rub down his sides. Every movement designed to be gentle, coaxing him back to reality.

There's an ebb and Dean knows the Grace is leaving his system, knows Cas is taking it back. He cracks his eyelids and watches as Cas swallows the swirling blue light.  
There's a flush across his chest that rises and falls rapidly with every gasped breath. Dean grins at the sight of the wet patches of come on Cas' belly, at the way his hair sticks up wildly, to the swell of his lips. Cas is a state, debauched, and he looks stunning.

He raises a trembling hand to reach out and cup Cas' cheek. The stubble sends shock waves through Dean's body. The angel turns in to the touch and presses a kiss to Dean's palm.

"You kinky fucker," Dean says through a half-huffed laugh. Cas joins in, his whole body shaking with it on top of Dean's thighs. He swipes the pad of his thumb across Cas' cheek and toys with a few sweaty curls behind Cas' ear. "S'always the quiet ones." Cas throws him a smile that oozes from his whole body.

Feeling suddenly serious, Dean whispers, "Why'd you never tell me about Naomi?"

Cas' eyes grow dark and he shakes his head. "It's unimportant, Dean."

"Bullshit. I'd say that was pretty damn important." Cas shrinks away from him looking anywhere but at Dean, until Dean cups his face with both hands and forces him to look. "I'm not mad," Dean whispers. "I've done some pretty fucked up shit, Cas. So have you. But that wasn't your fault."

"That's nice of you to say, Dean, but -"

Dean leans forwards and silences Cas' sentence with a swift kiss. "Not your fault."

"Dean - "

"I lost count of the number of times I messed up," Dean tells him firmly. "You never gave up on me. Least I can do is return the favour." He runs a broad hand up Cas' back and delights in the way Cas shivers against him.

There's a shimmer in the air and Dean feels clean and dry all of a sudden. Definitely some perks to sleeping with an angel. Cas leans in to Dean heavily, pressing his forehead into the crook of his neck. "I don't deserve your love," Cas whispers.

Dean's laugh fans Cas' hair back as he says, "And I sure as shit don't deserve yours."

The angel presses a soft kiss to the pulse point jumping in Dean's neck. "Agree to disagree?" Cas asks, his hands slowly exploring down Dean's sides and back up his arms.

"I can get behind that," Dean says quietly. He closes his eyes and loses himself to Cas' solid weight in his lap.

Dean can feel sleep claiming him, feels fatigue forming in his bones. He stifles a yawn.

"You should sleep," Cas tells him gently, and moves to climb back in to the side seat.

Dean tightens his arms around Cas and buries his face in Cas neck. "No," he mumbles into the angels skin. "Unless this is uncomfortable."

"S'not," Cas whispers.

A slow scowl creases Dean's forehead and he asks, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Dean," Cas says with a huff. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."


End file.
